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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27324892">Heaven's Blacksmiths</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygirl77/pseuds/Monkeygirl77'>Monkeygirl77</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Grumpy (Sometimes) But Kind Raphael [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angels being badass, Badass teenagers, Betrayal, Betrayed by his own blood, But they can suck it, He doesn't see it coming, Heaven's Blacksmithes, Heaven's Forges, I'm not a fan of the Winchesters, Michael's going to be overthrown, Mystery, Or Castiel, Playing the game of life, Secret Plots, The Winchesters want something that can kill an Archangel, Weapons Masters, not pussy, sorry - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:21:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,398</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27324892</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygirl77/pseuds/Monkeygirl77</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I only make weapons at Raphael's behest, and I will not dishonor nor betray him for the likes of you, it would do you good to remember we do not like being bothered. I will not make you a weapon strong enough to kill an Archangel." He steps back from the flames, and straightens up, crossing his arms behind his back. "I'll remember this, Castiel, I am not one you want as an enemy."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Grumpy (Sometimes) But Kind Raphael [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128185</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Cas, do you know anyone who can make weapon's to off an archangel?"</p>
<p>They both turn to the seraph in question, Castiel looks uneasy, as though he knows the answer to that question, but doesn't want to give it. In the end, his friendship weighs out on his reservations about such at thing, and he nods lightly, crossing his arms behind his back. "There is the armours. Heaven's blacksmiths. They make all weapons. Only the four original armours are permitted to make weapons for the Archangels."</p>
<p>Dean Winchester nods, that seems promising, what they needed was a weapon strong enough to kill Lucifer, seeing as the colt didn't work, they needed something else. "How do we contact one?"</p>
<p>"It is not easy, they are very elusive, spend most of their days in Heaven's forges. Two of them still remain in Heaven with their Archangel, two others are somewhere down on Earth, they disappeared some time ago."</p>
<p>Sam Winchester closes the book he was reading through, his research had led him nowhere, and he looks up at their angel friend curiously. "Can we summon one?"</p>
<p>Castiel seems put off by the request, but he nods. "We can, we have the ingredients we need, iron, sulfur, holy fire. We could summon one, though I should warn you, they don't take kindly to being bothered."</p>
<p>The older hunter cocks his gun. "We can handle it."</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>They prepare quickly, melting a few bullets into liquid metal, mixing in a small amount of sulfur, lighting the flames of holy fire in the bowl of ingredients, it didn't take much. They set the bowl in a circle of holy oil, and light the circle up, to keep their guest in place when they arrived.</p>
<p>Castiel closes his eyes, spreading his hands slightly, and begins chanting softly, calling out in enochain. The flames in the bowl shoot upwards, billowing out, moving as though breathing, a heartbeat, and when the glow of the flames disappears, a silhouette is revealed. They step forward cautiously, weapons in hand, ready for anything, and take in their new comer. He doesn't look like much, small, thin, but well built. Bright blue eyes, long dark curls frame his face, the flames illuminate his hazel skin, he almost glows behind them, his blue eyes look between them all, a tad curiously, a tad aggravated, Castiel had said they don't like being bothered. He's smudged in soot, a dark leather smock covers his front, old-timed trousers and boots, topless. Thick leather gloves are tucked in the waist strap of his smock.</p>
<p>"Salathiel." His blue eyes turn around to the one who spoke his name, staring at the seraph intently, Castiel shifts lightly on his feet, his gaze is as intense as his archangel's are. "Thank you, for coming."</p>
<p>"I wasn't left much of a choice." His voice is deep, but holds a childlike lightness quality to it, young, but not too young. "Why am I here?"</p>
<p>Dean steps forward, purposefully showing off his gun, so the angel knew who was in charge. His eyes turn to him, flitting quickly to the gun in his hand, then back to his eyes. "We need you to make us something strong enough to kill an archangel."</p>
<p>"I only make weapons at my Archangel's behest or benefit." He lowers his head slightly. "He has not requested I make you anything."</p>
<p>"Listen, bud," he points his gun at him, and cocks it, glaring at the angel behind the flames. "You either do what we say, or I pull this trigger, these bullets are made from an angel blade, they'll off you in seconds."</p>
<p>Salathiel eyes him slightly. "You do not scare me, human. You are about as intimidating as a fly is to a spider. I am the black widow in this situation, even behind these flames, and you are the spider flying so close to my web." He tilts his head slightly. "I will make you nothing. We stay neutral in this war between the two eldest. My job is to create in defense of my Archangel, and that is my only business, I attend to no others." He steps closer to the flames, they flicker over his chest, and he's unaffected by them. "I am a pacifist by nature, I do not like involving myself in violence, but I will step into the fray when my family is in danger, and as it stands, out of this whole turn of events, you have been the biggest threat to my family."</p>
<p>"You speak of your Archangel?" Sam Winchester steps forward, and his bright blue eyes turn away from the older hunter to stare at the younger, Sam flinches slightly at the intensity, but hides it well. "Which one is yours?"</p>
<p>Salathiel turns completely. "The third born, Raphael."</p>
<p>"That douche canoe!"</p>
<p>His head turns quickly, glaring at the older hunter, the flames flicker violently, as though affected by his change in temper. "Watch how you speak of him, human, my Archangel means much to me." He lifts his head as though to appear condescending. "For one to ask for another's help, they mustn't insult someone they hold so close to their heart, you wish for me to go against my position, against my Archangel, it would do you well not to insult him."</p>
<p>"As a healer," Sam cuts in, catching his attention again. "I would expect him to want you to aid anyone who's trying to save as many casualties as they can."</p>
<p>"As <em>the </em>Healer," Salathiel corrects the hunter. "It is in his heart to ensure the wellbeing of our kind. As it stands, in this war between the eldest, the most death's have been at your hands." He turns to look back at Castiel. "Or your seraph's. Ephraim will be missed dearly. <em>Two thirds </em>of Raphael's flock will be missed dearly." He slips his hands into his pockets. "I only make weapons at <em>Raphael's </em>behest, and I will not dishonor nor betray him for the likes of you, it would do you good to remember we do not like being bothered." He steps back from the flames, and straightens up, crossing his arms behind his back. "I will remember this, Castiel, I may be a pacifist by nature, but I am not one you want as your enemy. I can be <em>worse </em>the Elyon, because I am the <em>least </em>suspected of attacking."</p>
<p>He's gone in the blink of an eye, leaving nothing but the smoldering lines of what had once been holy fire, and sooty boot prints on the floor.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>Elyon was waiting for himself outside the doors of the War Room, changed out of his dirty attire and into cleaner, more formal attire, as they usually did when they were requested to meet their Archangel's in the War Room, no use getting soot everywhere, it was a pain cleaning it all up. He raises an eyebrow at his attire, he hadn't been given time to change and wash up, thus he arrived in what he had been wearing last.</p>
<p>"Where did you go, Salathiel?" Michael's armour eyes him carefully. "Raphael was looking for you."</p>
<p>"I was summoned." Salathiel reaches back to pull his dreads into a large bun on the back of his head. "By a mutual enemy."</p>
<p>"You mean…?" Elyon's eyes widen slightly. "<em>Castiel </em>summoned you? Why?"</p>
<p>"Him and his humans desired me to make them a weapon strong enough to kill an archangel."</p>
<p>His brother purses his lips. "What did you say?"</p>
<p>He turns, regarding his brother lightly. "That we are neutral. I will not betray Raphael in such a manner."</p>
<p>"Good." Elyon turns away from him. "We do not need any more betrayal."</p>
<p>"Coming from you, considering this plan of yours, I wouldn't think you would be one talking of betrayal."</p>
<p>The other blacksmith turns a glare in his direction. "I will do anything to protect my Archangel, if that means removing him from command, then I will do it. If he will not step down willingly and we need to take things further then we should, then so be it. You are as much involved as I am, you have no room to judge, you're the one who did the rune work on the blade." He turns back around. "We should just hope Michael steps down willingly."</p>
<p>Salathiel nods, turning back to look at the doors. "We speak of it no more, not until it's time, have you got the blade?"</p>
<p>Elyon nods. "It's hidden in my work bench."</p>
<p>"Good." He nods, turning back around, and steps forward, pushing the doors open, and they step in.</p>
<p>Both Archangels turn to look at them as they enter, Raphael raises an eyebrow at his armour's attire, but says nothing, turning back to the map on the table. Michael regards them quickly, deems them unimportant at the given moment, and turns back to their planning. Elyon comes to stand at Michael's right shoulder, and he claims his position at the Healer's, crossing his arms lightly, he stands there, his muscles ache, he'd been working hard when he'd been summoned, he's dirty and sweaty, he's ready to clean up and get on to bed.</p>
<p>But he says not a word, listening to the two Archangels converse between each other, the only two in Heaven who know their plans. He looks over his shoulder, spying the pillar he stands just a pace away from, and steps over slightly, leaning against the pillar, he sighs silently, closing his eyes.</p>
<p>Elyon watches him, he can feel his eyes on him, static prickles over his skin and he opens his eyes, meeting the emerald eyes of his Archangel, Raphael smiles slightly, it's there and gone, he's not so openly expressive with his kindness as he had once been, he's built himself a formidable shell, to protect his heart from more heart break, but he's still kind to him, and that's what matters, in his opinion.</p>
<p>He straightens. "We will discuss this more tomorrow, Michael, for now, I make my leave." He turns, gesturing for him to follow, and Salathiel pushes away from the pillar to follow after him as he moves away from the table. "Good night."</p>
<p>Michael nods at him, watching their departure for a moment, and turns his attention back to the maps on the table.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>"Where had you gone?" His Archangel is soft spoken, he hardly raises his voice, his memory only recalls a few times when he had. "I came searching for you."</p>
<p>Salathiel groans when his fingers find a particularly tough knot and knead at it firmly, he's bathed and changed, laying between his Archangel's legs, his head resting on his belly, his arms laying over his hips lightly. "I was summoned."</p>
<p>"Summoned?" Raphael's tone is concerned above his head. "By whom?"</p>
<p>"Castiel and his pets." He makes a face, groaning once more when they manage to work the knot free, and find another. "Or, should I say, the Winchester's and their pet."</p>
<p>"Castiel and his humans summoned you?" The Healer scratches at his shoulders, finding no more knots to work free, and he hums in pleasure at the feeling, he loves it when his shoulders are scratched, and his Archangel knows this all too well. "What did they want from you?"</p>
<p>"They asked me to make them a weapon strong enough to kill an archangel."</p>
<p>They fall into silence, he doesn't say anything further, he knows his Archangel has something he wants to say, he's just trying to find the right words. "Salathiel, you would never betray me, would you?"</p>
<p>He shakes his head, without a moments hesitation, and curls his arms around him lightly. "Never. You are my Archangel. I will stand by your side until my last breath."</p>
<p>Guilt eats at him as he says it, though, for if only he knew what they had planned for him, perhaps he wouldn't be as relieved as his sigh sounds. He's tempted to tell him, to tell him everything, but he bites his tongue, now was not the right time, not this moment.</p>
<p>"I thank you, Salathiel, for your undying loyalty." He scratches lightly down his back. "I know it mustn't be easy being apart from your brothers as you are."</p>
<p>"I could say the same to you, my Archangel. I will forever be loyal to you." He opens his eyes, staring at the Healer's staff across from him, leaning against the wall. "I have only the best of intentions when it comes to my Archangel." He takes a moment. "No matter how it may seem when it occurs."</p>
<p>"That sounds fairly ominous, I noticed how quiet you and Elyon have been as of late, are you two up to something I should be aware of?"</p>
<p>
  <em>Yes.</em>
</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>
  <em>Not yet.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/>“Nisroc.”</p><p>The first thing he’d expected that morning was <em>not </em>having that beady eyed little suck up waiting for him outside his office door, three guards behind him, and he heaves a sigh, he’s not awake enough for this, and pushes through them to unlock his office. “What do you want, Zachariah?”</p><p>The beady eyed little receptionist steps forward as he enters his office, turning on the lamps to light the room until the sun rises, casting it’s natural light in through the large windows.</p><p>Zachariah <em>purrs</em> softly. “I have reason to believe your Archangel is under threat of attack.”</p><p><em>That</em> catches his attention, he’d defend his Archangel to his very last breath, and Nisroc turns, to look down at the short stubby angel before him. “<em>Explain</em>.”</p><p>…</p><p>He waits until his Archangel has left for the day before crawling out of bed himself, silently pulling his trousers on, buckling the belt to keep them in place, and shoves his feet into his thick boots, he’s got things to do, it’s his turn, he’s supposed to start this, he has some collecting to do, and he’s never missed a single duty in his entire life.</p><p>Opening the door to the Healer’s room, he steps out into the hall, making his way down silently, releasing his dreads from their bun, letting them fall down his back and over his shoulders. His silver eyes take in his surroundings, silent as the night, looking for any interruption to the work he has to do. Elyon was counting on him, and he would be damned if he let his brother down, he was as hard a worker as any of them, and this, this would require hard work.</p><p>One does not do what they have planned if they are weak and contain no backbone.</p><p>Making his way down the steps, an apple in hand, he’d snatched it from the basket on the table, he takes a bite as he makes his way down the dirt path that led away from the Archangel’s Villa, the gate squeaks lightly as he pulls it open, and he takes the steps slowly as he makes his way to the Axis below them. No one bats an eye as the blacksmith steps into the moving crowd, everyone is heading to where they need to be, anyone could be seen on the Axis, even and one of the Archangels elusive blacksmiths.</p><p>He turns down a stone path, one that lead to the entrance of the Forge, made of thick stone, something akin to a Volcano, smoke and steam consistently billowing from the top. He passes by other blacksmiths, down the stairs to the bottom, where <em>their </em>workstations are located, they’re made from the fires in Heaven’s furnace and core, they’re the only ones who can get close to it. The ground moves, molten metal and magma swirling around the bottom in a large lake, their workstations are built on large flat rock connected islands in the lake, he walks his way down the path that leads to his own workstation, throwing the apple core into the molten material. It’s sweltering, anyone else would be overwhelmed by the heat alone, but he’s not, it’s nothing more then a warm summers day to him, nothing out of the usual.</p><p>Salathiel pulls his thick leather smock over his head, reaching back to tie it around him, pins the dreads hanging in his face back, and reaches for his long thick leather gloves.</p><p>His bare back glistens from sweat, not too much, he’s never run the risk of suffering heatstroke or dehydration, but everyone sweats when exposed to heat.</p><p>Turning, the blacksmith reaches into the magma and molten metal, down to middle of his forearm, fingers curling around the edge of his latest project, what’s needed in this scheme they’ve concocted, and lifts it from the swirling lake. It glows bright orange in his hand, and he sets it on his iron table, reaches for his hammer, reels his arm up, and his hammer bangs when it makes contact with the heated metal. He cuts the length, small, a dagger of sorts, and pounds it with his hammer until it begins to take form before him. He sharpens the edges to a smooth end, sharp to the touch, and it steams when he dunks in in his barrel of cold water.</p><p>Turning back to his work station, he sets the blade down on the table top, reaches up for his clamps, and for an iron handle, fastening the handle is easy, the rune work, not so much. It takes him a while, he has to get it right, he doesn’t want to start all over again. It takes time to make it perfect, they can’t have anything less then perfection, and when he’s finished, he holds it up above his head, the runes in the metal blade glisten in the light, he runs a soot covered finger over the engravings, and nods, his work is complete.</p><p>Salathiel removes his gloves and smock, slipping the dagger into his belt, and makes his way back up to the top. When he breaches the last step, he pauses, Zachariah is there, smirking at him, with his beady little eyes, Nisroc at his side, his Powers flanking him.</p><p>The Powers Captain raises his hands, attempting to keep this peaceful. “Salathiel, we’ve heard you’ve been working on a new project.”</p><p>“I have.” His deep voice echoes around the cavern. “I don’t see what the cause of that is to bring you all here, I am always working on new projects, it’s nothing new.”</p><p>Nisroc nods lightly. “We’ve also heard that you’ve made something that can be used against the Archangels.”</p><p>His silver eyes flit from the Captain to his accuser. “Been telling stories, Zachariah?” The stubby angel sneers at him and he turns his attention back to the eldest Power. “I make weapons for my Archangel frequently, most of them can be used against another Archangel, yes, is it so suspicious to make such a weapon during a war that has an Archangel, though fallen he may be, as the opponent. I only wish to ensure my Archangel’s protection, just as you do for yours, is that a crime?”</p><p>The Power shakes his head. “No, it is not, if you have nothing to be held as a threat against the Archangels, then you won’t mind me looking at that dagger you have tucked in your belt.” He tilts his head and offers a kind smile. “It’s all in the rune work, is it not?”</p><p>Salathiel nods sharply. “It’s always all in the rune work.” He shakes his head, a quick jerk of the head, his silver eyes glowing lightly. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”</p><p>“If you have nothing to hide, then why keep it a secret, if you haven’t done something wrong.”</p><p>He glares harshly. “<em>Nothing</em> I make is made with ill intent, it is <em>all </em>for the betterment of my Archangel and the Host, I am insulted you would <em>accuse </em>me of doing an intended <em>wrong doing</em>.”</p><p>“Salathiel,” Nisroc reaches for his sword when he realizes this is not going to be an easy turn over, his Powers reaching for their own weapons, prepared to use force if necessary. “I can’t let you leave until I see the runes on that blade.”</p><p>“I’m afraid, my friend, that you will find you will not be successful, I do apologize for this.” He grabs the large bucket of molten material on the work bench next to him, and throws the magma material over the floor, his boots are thick enough, theirs are not, and they jump back as it rushes towards them. Salathiel darts forward, twisting his hands to pull the magma with him, creating himself a path, surrounding his assumed capturers in their place, and runs for the entrance, disappearing from sight.</p><p>Nisroc growls lowly, looking for a blacksmith nearest them. “You,” he points at the first one he spots. “Free us.”</p><p>…</p><p>Salathiel weaves through the crowd on the Axis, keeping his senses spiked, listening for anything out of the ordinary, and makes his way to his first destination, the building just a few paces away, on the left, gray in color, a metal picket fence wrapped around the dead grass on the outside. He makes his way up the small path, and up the stairs, pushing the door open, he just closes it behind him, when he’s rushed by two guards.</p><p>He ducks under the arm of the first, turning fluidly, and kicks his knees in, forcing him to the floor, curling his fingers in his hair, he pulls his head back. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t honestly know what you’re doing.” And slits his throat, all the way around, ear to ear, bright grace being absorbed by the blade, he won’t die, he knows where and how to cut, he was raised by the Healer, of course, he knew what to do to get what he needed and not leave any fatal damage. The one in his grip falls forward, unconscious, and he turns to the other, kicking his knee with his heavy thick boot, and it cracks, the guard cries out as he tumbles forward, and he darts around, squatting over his shoulders, lifting his head by the hair. “I’m very sorry.” And slits his throat too, his grace absorbed in the blade, the runes glowing bright for a moment, before fading.</p><p>The blacksmith turns, stalking down the hall silently, following the sounds of the screams, another victim being tortured by the mindbreaker, she was a traitor, she was a monster, she had betrayed their Archangel, manipulated and abused his teachings, using the gifts bestowed upon her for vile actions.</p><p>He turns, facing the door where the screams emanate from, and turns to look down the hall to his right, others stare at him through the bar doors of various room, some stare up at him from cages, and he feels rage and sympathy fill him in equal measures. “You’ll be free soon. She will not harm you ever again. You will get the help you need shortly after I make my leave.” He turns back to the door, and kicks it open, revealing his presence, it catches her by surprise, she jumps and spins, the sounds of the drill falling silent, the screams of her victim fading into ragged sobs. “Naomi. Your time has come to a conclusion. Your services are no longer needed.” He steps forward.</p><p>The mindbreaker steps back at his approach. “Salathiel, what are you doing here, you never stay too far from the Forge and our Archangel.”</p><p>“<em>My </em>Archangel, he stopped being yours when you <em>betrayed </em>his teachings and gifts he bestowed upon you, you are a <em>traitor </em>to your own kind.” He steps into the room, catching up to her retreating form with quick grace, and yanks her down by the collar of her top, forcing her to her knees. “If you are going to abuse people with your grace, then you shall not have it, I’d say I’m sorry for this, but I would be lying, and <em>my </em>Archangel does not condone lying.” He slits her throat in one quick motion, her blue grace sinking into the blade of his dagger, this one is fatal, he intends this one to be fatal, and when he lets her go, she falls limply to the floor.</p><p>Stepping over her prone body, the blacksmith steps up to the table, where the abused is sobbing so viciously, blood dripping down from his forehead. “You’ll be alright soon, my friend, help will be here soon.”</p><p>He turns, pulling the keys for the cuffs and cells from her neck, breaking the chain their attached to. Unlocking the cuffs around the victims wrists and ankles, he presses a smudged hand to his chest. “Rest here, my friend, do not move, someone will come for you shortly. She shall not hurt you again.” Salathiel turns away from him, stepping over the body on the floor, blood spilling over the pristine white granite, he wipes the blade clean on the left leg of his trousers, and comes to stand before the first cell, reaching in between the bars. “Here, my friend, free yourselves, stay here, help will be here soon.”</p><p>Their hand shakes as they take the keys from him. “T—T—Thank y—you.”</p><p>The blacksmith nods slightly and turns, making his way down the hall, stepping over the limp forms of the guards, he pauses for a moment, squatting, to feel for their pulses, and when he finds it steady until his fingers, he stands, turns, and makes his leave.</p><p>He’s got others to see.</p><p>…</p><p>Raphael frowns as he takes in the carnage, squatting between the two guards slumped unconscious by the door, feeling for their pulse, it’s steady under his fingers, and he nods slightly.</p><p>The Virtues and Powers step forward, around their respective Archangel, to see if their quarry was still present, and if there was any others to be found.</p><p>“Raphael, brother, are they—”</p><p>The Healer shakes his head, looking down at the guard nearest him, and turns him over, fingers ghosting lightly on their slit throat. “No, they are still very much alive, he was after their grace, not their lives.” He motions for his brother to help him, as he pulls them both up to rest against the wall, curling his hands around their bleeding necks, pushing his grace into the wounds, healing them under his touch, they’d lost a lot of blood, but nothing fatal, they’d be unconscious for a while, though. “He left enough that it will replenish itself with time.”</p><p>“Raphael.”</p><p>“Michael.”</p><p>They both look up at the sound of their Captains voices, Raphael rises, brushing his hands on his trousers.</p><p>Oren and Nisroc stand there. “You’ll want to see this.”</p><p>Both Archangels nod, continuing their way down the hall, as they draw closer, they hear the whimpers and sobs, Nisroc and Oren step aside, giving them view of the small group if angels huddled together at the end of the hall. Raphael frowns in concern, the Healer in him urging him to look each and every one of the over, but he can’t, he has more pressing matters to tend to, and pushes that urge to the side, turning to look to his Captain. “Oren, go fetch some healers, they all need escorted to the Infirmary, I want thorough exams done on every one of them, if anything seems rather pressing, beyond your realm of expertise, call for me.”</p><p>The Virtues’ Captain nods, turning, darting down the hall.</p><p>The two Archangels turn into the room next to them, where the sobs emanate from, there’s a body laying limply on the floor, a puddle of crimson blood puddled under her, and a limp form on the table, sobbing with all the grief they’d been put through.</p><p>Michael steps up to the body on the floor.</p><p>Raphael steps forward for the distraught young angel on the table. “Sshhh, sshhh, little one.” He gently helps the youth up, Constantine helping turn him, their legs dangling over the edge of the table. “You’re alright, it’s alright.” He pulls them into a warm embrace, holding onto them tightly, and they press against his chest, sobbing deeply. “It’s going to be alright, little one, we’ll take care of you now, everything will be alright.” The Healer curls his right hand around the back of the distraught angel’s neck, lulling them to sleep with his grace, the sobs fall silent and they fall limply against him. “Constantine, be cautious and gentle, escort this one to the Infirmary, he takes priority, his wounds are still fresh, no doubt this session was interrupted.”</p><p>The Virtue nods, stepping around to his side, gently lifting limp angel into his arms, carrying him from the room.</p><p>Raphael watches them disappear around the corner, and turns, kneeling next to the body on the floor. Michael shakes his head. “She’s dead. He severed her jugular.”</p><p>The thirdborn hums, turning her over, her eyes were still open, and despite her actions, he closed them gently. “He <em>intended</em> to kill her. He took her grace and intended for her to die.”</p><p>The oldest looks up at him. “Do you know why?”</p><p>“I don’t.” The Healer shakes his head. “But, he did say something quite curious the night before.”</p><p>Michael hums softly. “What was that?”</p><p>“He said, <em>‘I have only the best of intentions when it comes to my Archangel. No matter how it may seem when it occurs.’ </em>I feel as though they are up to something, perhaps playing one of their games, they’ve always played more then one game at a time, always the Game Of Life.”</p><p>“That founds fairly ominous.”</p><p>“That’s what I said.”</p><p>“Sir!” They both look up when Nisroc appears in the doorway. “There’s been another. At the Prison.”</p><p>…</p><p>He’s stopped at the door, Temeluch and Aeshma cutting him off, and he raises his hands placatingly. “I only have something to deliver.”</p><p>The two of them nod, parting for him, Aeshma pulls the door open, and he thanks them softly as he enters, listening to the door close heavily behind him. Salathiel slowly makes his way down the aisle, ignoring the inquisitive stares from the prisoners as he passes them, squealing laughter echoes softly down the hall, and he follows it silently, to his epicenter.</p><p>
  <em>He’s in the Chamber. </em>
</p><p>He has nothing against him, he quite likes him, second only to his Archangel, he’s made him laugh harder than he’s ever laughed before, Raphael has sent him here a number of times for <em>‘punishment’ </em>for mouthing off to him one too many times, he loves spending some of his free time here with him, he’s nice and kind and loving, he’s rather good company to have.</p><p>But, he needs what he came here for, and he has to push his feelings aside, he <em>has </em>to do this.</p><p>Curling the fingers of his right hand around the iron handle of his blade, he curls the fingers of his left around the handle of the Chamber’s door and he pushes the heavy metal door open.</p><p>The squealing laughter falls silent when the Warden turns, to see what had interrupted his session, his eyes widening in surprise, and turns completely, to give him his complete attention, the prisoner he’d been torturing panting and giggling quietly behind him. “Salathiel, what are you doing here?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Thaddeus, I have nothing against you.”</p><p>“What do you—”</p><p>He surges forward, yanking the taller angel down by the collar of his shirt, Thaddeus stares up at him in shock, his fingers curled in his hair, pulling his head back. “I need your grace. I hope we can still be friends.” And, he slashes his dagger over the older angels throat, being sure to make the wound an unfatal one, his rose gold grace seeping into the blade, the runes glowing the color of his grace, before fading. The blacksmith gently lowers the limp unconscious Warden to the floor, curls his free hand around his neck, and slowly heals the wound, his healing ability isn’t nearly as quick as his Archangel’s is, he’s a blacksmith, not a healer, but he knows how to do it.</p><p>Standing, he looks over to meet the eyes of the terrified prisoner, he’s horrified, staring at him. “He’ll be up and at it in no time, I assure you.”</p><p>And, he turns, making his leave, cracking the chamber door behind him, they’ll know he’s in there, the doors either open or closed, it’s never cracked. He thanks Temeluch and Aeshma at the door, and slowly makes his way down the steps, this one, this one he feels bad about, he like Thaddeus, he’s fun, he knows how to make him <em>scream </em>with laughter, he quite enjoys seeing him, but he needed his grace, and the needs of Heaven come before personal feelings.</p><p>…</p><p>Michael helps the shocked prisoner off the table, catching him when he leans too far to the left, waiting until he’s steady, before he passes him over to the guards waiting there, to escort him gently back to his cell. Then, he kneels at his brother’s side, the Co-Warden kneeling across from them, Sabaoth is distressed, as expected of him.</p><p>Raphael pulls his fingers away from side of Thaddeus’s neck. “His pulse is strong and steady, but his grace is gone, there’s enough for it to regenerate itself over time.” He touches a finger to the Warden’s neck, running it gently over the scar running over his throat, humming to himself thoughtfully. “He healed him, the scar will remain, not even I can get rid of that, but he healed him.”</p><p>“Why heal him, but not the guards?”</p><p>The Healer pulls his hand back. “He quite likes Thaddeus, very much.” He nods to his brother, and Michael leans forward, pulling the unconscious form of the Warden up into his arms, and they both stand, turning out of the Torture Chamber, and up the stairs to the Warden’s quarters. “Michael, thus far, I’ve noticed a pattern.”</p><p>The oldest Archangel leans over to set his charge down on his bed, and straightens, turning to look at his brother. “What is it?”</p><p>Raphael rubs a hand down his face. “Thus far, he’s taking the grace from the most powerful angels, under us, that is, Naomi was one of my first, she is powerful in her own right, matched with Akriel in strength, stronger than most of my other healers.” He gestures to the Warden. “Thaddeus was one of your first, stronger then the guards in his Prison, the place works to his beck and call, he’s quite powerful himself.”</p><p>“What of the guards?”</p><p>“I think, they were unintended targets.”</p><p>“If that be true, who would be next on his path?”</p><p>“There’s four possibilities: Nisroc, Oren, Joshua, and Metatron.”</p><p>“Raph.” They turn at the call, Oren stands in the doorway, his expression grim. “There’s been another one. The Garden.”</p><p>…</p><p>It’s cowardly, he knows, but he sneaks up behind him, pulling him down with element of surprise. “I’m sorry, Joshua, I do hope we can still be friends.” And slits his throat, his leafy green grace seeping into the blade, the runes glowing with it, and fading moments later. He lowers the Gardener down gently, squatting at his side, and curls his hand around his neck, much as he had done with Thaddeus, and heals the wound he’d created.</p><p>Then, he stands, moving on to his fourth and final intended target.</p><p>…</p><p>They both kneel at the Gardner’s side, Raphael pulls away from checking his pulse, and runs a finger over the same scar Thaddeus wears. “His pulse is strong and steady, it’s only his grace that was taken, similar to Thaddeus and the two guards, most but not all, it will regenerate.”</p><p>“What is he <em>doing</em>?”</p><p>He shakes his head. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”</p><p>Joshua groan softly, his eyes fluttering open, and he stares up at the two Archangels.</p><p>Raphael smiles down at him, stroking his cheek tenderly. “How do you feel, little fern?”</p><p>“I feel…Weak….And dizzy.”</p><p>“That’s to be expected given what was taken from you.” He rubs his chest gently. “You should rest, do you wish to rest here or in your bed?”</p><p>The Gardener licks his lips. “Here.”</p><p>“Michael,” he dreads what’s about to be said, but they both turn, Nisroc jerks his head around slightly. “There’s been another. The library.”</p><p>…</p><p>“I’ve never liked you, Metatron, you’re a traitor.”</p><p>…</p><p>“He’s dead.”</p><p>…</p><p>Salathiel knows they’re right behind him, they’re on his trail, and he makes his way down to the lake as quick as he can, to Elyon’s station, and opens the hidden drawer under the workbench, placing his blade inside, and withdrawing the other, identical in appearance, and tucks it into his belt, closes the drawer again, and turns back, making his way up the stairs slowly.</p><p>He raises his hands as he crests the top, where the two Archangels and their legions stand at the ready, Michael and his Powers with their swords drawn, Raphael with his staff and his Virtues with their various weapons.</p><p>“I’ll come peacefully.”</p><p>Michael raises his sword. “Slide the blade over.”  The blacksmith nods, slowly reaching for the dagger in his belt, and kneels, sliding it across the floor to them. The Archangel bends at the knee slightly, picking the dagger up, and passes it over to his brother, Raphael tucks it in his belt, and he avoids his Archangel’s eyes. It’s for him. All of this is for him. He just doesn’t know it yet. “On your knees and hands on your head.”</p><p>He nods, following Michael’s orders, resting on his knees, raising his arms to rest his hands on his head. The Commander nods, gesturing to his two oldest Powers, Nisroc and Abraxos jog forward, one of them pulls his hands back around his back, cuffing his wrists together, grace suppressant cuffs, and they lift him to his feet, they’re gentle, but at the same time, still rough.</p><p>They drag him forward, he moves willingly, so it’s not <em>really </em>like they’re dragging him forward, he’s being cooperative.</p><p>They pause, when the Healer raises a hand, and Salathiel stares straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. “<em>Why</em>, Salathiel?” His Archangel sounds so heartbroken. Devastated. He’s broken his trust in him. He can only hope he’ll forgive him when this is all over.</p><p>He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “I can’t tell you.”</p><p>“Take him to the Prison.”</p><p>…</p><p>“This isn’t the blade.” Raphael tosses the dagger down on their table and buries his face in his hands, his mind still reeling, that his most trusted companion had betrayed him. “He was collecting grace, there’s not a drop in the blade, there’s not a drop anywhere on this dagger, it’s not the one he was using.”</p><p>Michael hums softly. “He must have swapped it out with the real one while he was down in the furnace.” He bangs a fist down on table. “We will tear the place apart until we find it.”</p><p>…</p><p>“Michael, here.” He turns at the sound of his brothers voice, he’s standing before Elyon’s workbench, a drawer pulled open from the bottom, he hadn’t known it was there, so he’s not sure how his brother found it, but then, Raphael had always been the most observant out of them all. “I’m sure it would have been here.”</p><p>“It’s not?”</p><p>The Healer shakes his head. “No, it’s gone, and there’s only one who could have taken it.”</p><p>Michael exhales softly. “Elyon.” He rubs a hand down his face. “We have to find him.”</p><p>…</p><p>Salathiel turns at the sound of the cell door opening, turning away from the window he’d been looking out, and his eyes widen. Raphael stands there, in the doorway, his staff in hand, the dagger in his other hand. He looks down as he tosses the dagger, it rolls to a stop just in front of him.</p><p>“That is a fake.” He looks up when he hears him step in, the door closes behind him, and the lock clicks into place. His Archangel looks angry, enraged would be a better description, and his fingers tighten around his staff. “I will give you <em>one </em>chance to tell me, <em>where </em>is Elyon and the dagger?”</p><p>He keeps his lips pressed firmly together and shakes his head.</p><p>
  <em>Soon. But not yet.</em>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He works quickly, transferring the grace from Salathiel’s dagger to the curved knife in his hand, he knows they’ll come soon, looking for the real dagger, and he has to move quickly. Once the last of the grace seeps into his knife, he tosses the dagger into the molten magma materiel, and turns, making his leave quickly, he has to be gone before they get here.</p><p>Melting in the crowd on the Axis, he makes his way down the street, towards his destination. The training field is empty when he steps up into it, the sun starting to set around them, the Pavilion is a looming structure above him, and he keeps his eyes peeled for anyone peering out the large windows above him, moving quick and swift down the dirt path, up onto the stone underbelly, and makes his way down the hall silently, as silent as the night.</p><p>There’s movement in the office he comes for, he’s always here late, especially in the times they live in now. The doors cracked, and he peeks through with an amber eye, his back is facing him, he doesn’t know he’s here, he has the element of surprise on his side, he’s not paying attention to his surroundings, focused completely on the file he’s reading in his hands.</p><p>Gently, silently, he pushes the door open, light spills into the dark hallway, and he pulls his curved knife out of his belt, prepares himself, takes a running start, and leaps up onto his back. He yells in surprise, and he doesn’t know if anyone heard it and will come looking, so he has to work fast. Curling his fingers in his hair, he pulls his head back. “I’m sorry, Nis, I hope we can still be friends.” And slits his throat, his amber grace seeps into the blade, and he slides down from the tall Power’s back, catching him when he falls, easing him to the floor gently, he’s no healer, he’d heal the gash, but he doesn’t know how. “I’m sorry, my friend, you’ll understand, soon.”</p><p>He turns, darting from the office, and he’s half way across the training field when he hears a yell, someone found him, and he disappears through the training fields cave entrance. He’s milling with the crowd on the Axis when he hears a deep voice calling his name, and he turns at the voice, his eyes widening when he sees who it is, and turns, darting forward, not caring who he crashes into, pushing people out of his way as the thump of boots behind him follows.</p><p>“Elyon, stop! <em>Elyon! </em>Stop! <em>Stop!” </em>His heart beats fast, like a hummingbirds, as he weaves through the crowd, trying to lose his pursuer. “<em>Elyon, I’m ordering you to stop! </em>Elyon! <em>Stop! </em>Stop!”</p><p>The crowd parts, as the Archangel chases after the blacksmith, watching them make their chase down the lane.</p><p>Elyon glances over his shoulder, not seeing the one standing in front of him, not until he crashes into him, arms curling around him as he’s forced to take a step back. “I think that’s quite enough.” The deep voice has him turning, amber eyes wide as they stare into emerald green, the eyes of the Healer blazing with fury. “I don’t know what <em>game</em> you two are playing, but it comes to an end, <em>now</em>.”</p><p>He turns, fingers itching for the knife in his belt, his fingers close around the hilt tightly, they need his grace, his healing grace, he’s the last one on their mental to-do list. “Raph, I am <em>so </em>sorry.” He’s like a viper, the Archangel has no time to react, as the blade slides over his throat, he watches with wide stunned eyes as his emerald green grace seeps into the blade, the runes engraved on it glowing in time. His grip loosens, and the boy slips free, darting around him as he falls to his knees, black spots dancing in his vision, and vaguely sees the form of his brother running up to him before darkness overtakes his consciousness.</p><p>…</p><p>Salathiel looks up when he hears someone approach his cell, bright amber eyes meet his silver eyes, and he’s up in an instant, laying on his belly, for <em>obvious </em>reasons, but he hadn’t said a word, the entire time, he’d screamed and howled, but he hadn’t said a word, and Raphael had left in a foul mood, promising to be back in the morning, they’d do <em>this </em>every day until he sang like a little song bird.</p><p>“Sala?” The voice calls out cautiously, softly, not wanting to disturb any of the guards or the prisoners around them. “Sala, you there.”</p><p>“Ely,” he calls out, reaching through the bars with his left hand, a hand curls around his in turn. “Did you get it?”</p><p>There’s a pause. “Yes, I got it.”</p><p>Salathiel closes his eyes for a moment, he’s betrayed his Archangel, betrayed him in the worst possible way, there’s no redemption now, there’s no trust, their relationship is in tatters. Raphael had been his guide, his best friend, his closest companion, his older brother, and he’d betrayed him.</p><p>“Sala, I’m sorry, but it was the only way.”</p><p>He inhales deeply and exhales slowly. “I know.” He’ll miss his Archangel, but this was for him, this was for both of them, even if they didn’t know it yet. “Can you get me out?”</p><p>“Yes.” A key rattles softly in the lock, and the doors pulled open, he steps out silently, following his brother down the hall towards the door, it’s unguarded, cracked open, and when they slip out, he sees the guards, unconscious, their necks slit open, extra grace, they needed as much as they could get. Eylon turns to look at him once they’re outside. “I’m sorry, Sala, I know how much Raphael meant to you.”</p><p>Salathiel nods after a brief moment. “It’s alright. He may never forgive me, but if it can keep Michael from fading, then it’s worth it, at least one of us won’t lose their Archangel.” He throws it from his mind, pushes it away, they have more pressing matters to attend to, he can grieve the loss of his Archangel once they’re completed. “What do we do now?”</p><p>The other blacksmith looks down at the knife in his hands, the runes shimmering with their collected grace, and sighs softly. “Now, we stab Michael in the heart.”</p><p>…</p><p>Heaven’s blacksmiths, the original four, are very elusive, they hide in the shadows, hiding in plain sight, but remain unseen, because they’re never expected to be there. They watch and wait, watching Michael sit at his brother’s bedside, guards posted around the grand room of the Infirmary, Elyon chances a glance at his brother, he’s never seen Salathiel looks so utterly <em>broken </em>before.</p><p>They watch a dark hand appear, and Michael grabs it, curling it in his hand, lifting it up to his lips. He leans over for a glass of water on the bedside table and leans over to allow his bedbound brother to drink, he nods, reaching down, helping the Healer sit up in the bed, he turns carefully, very obviously still dizzy, but he’s catching his bearings quickly. He runs a few fingers over his throat, and beside him, Elyon looks over, when Salathiel makes a small noise in the back of this throat.</p><p>He slips his hand into his brothers, and squeezes, offering as much comfort as he can, he squeezes his hand lightly in return.</p><p>The watch Michael help Raphael to his feet, Elyon squeezes his brother’s hand, and Salathiel looks over at him.</p><p>
  <em>Now. </em>
</p><p>They both dart forward, out of the shadows, and healers around them scream in surprise, jumping out of their way, both Archangels look up at the sound, their eyes widening, the guards rush in, but they pay everyone else no mind, they have their mission, their target, and they can’t allow <em>anything </em>to stop them.</p><p>Salathiel rams himself into Raphael’s middle, wrapping his arms around him, knocking him off his feet, and they tumble backwards from the force of the impact. They slide to a stop, and he pays the Archangel behind him no mind, watching Elyon jump at Michael, it surprises the Commander, and he’s knocked off his feet, slammed down on his back, the breath forced from him, Elyon raises the blade above his head, the grace they’d collected shines brightly, and then he thrusts it down, Michael yells, as the blade pierces his heart. The grace in the blade hums with energy, the glow becoming almost unbearable, it swirls inwards, a swirling ball, arms curl around his middle from behind, and he yelps as he’s tugged around, onto his belly, underneath the Healer, as the ball of humming grace explodes outwards.</p><p>…</p><p>Elyon’s thrown back by the force of the exploding grace, his hands are burned, rather terribly, someone tries to catch him, he crashes into them, he hears a grunt, and they’re swept off their feet from the impact, they slide back, and he stares, watching as the light from the exploding grace slowly fades. He stares at his Archangel’s limp form, laying there unmoving, the blade still pierced in his chest, and he scrambles forward, away from whoever caught him, pushing himself up with his burnt hands, anything to get back to his Archangel’s side.</p><p>He slides to his knees next to him, as his arm raises, fingers curling around the handle of the knife, pulling it free. He hears Michael groan softly, and he breathes a sigh of relief at the sound, he’s <em>alive</em>. He presses a burnt palm to his chest, feeling his grace beating strongly under his touch, stronger than it had felt in the months previous.</p><p>The blacksmith looks up at the sound of his name, he can barely hear it, it’s too muffled. Salathiel slides in front of him, catching his hands, saying something, probably shouting, and he stares down at his hands.</p><p>His burnt, crisp, blackened hands.</p><p>The only thing he thinks of as he falls forward limply, the <em>pain</em> from his hands overwhelming him, is something simple.</p><p>
  <em>Worth it. </em>
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